You Said That Already
by former-burning-example
Summary: Collision, reflex, and the color blue. One-shot. Rizzles if you squint. Complete.


A/N: This is one of those one-shot ideas that strikes in the dead of night. It's kind of about nothing, but at the same time, it's everything I love about them.

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She can't take her eyes off that mouth.

No, not now. Not when she's in so deep and gone so far, any hope (not that she'd ever hope so) of turning back is diminished. She doesn't like it.

No, that's wrong. She likes it. She _loves_ it... She hates that she loves it so much. That a mouth (a rather perfect one at that) could steal every ounce of her attention with a single quirk or upturned smile. For years she's prided herself on being the tough-as-nails homicide detective. Hard and unbreakable and unbelievably kept-together.

But _that mouth_.

Like days when her autopsies are pushed back an hour when the coroner's van finds itself lodged in traffic. The days she wanders into the bullpen, curiosity burning in those hazel eyes, intent on taking in all the details of the land above the world she draws comfort from. The days she fiddles with the small objects cluttering the detective's desk in her subconscious insecurity that follows her on every trip up the elevator. Some days a particularly bright pen will catch her eye, and she'll uncap and recap it a dozen times over before Korsak glances up from his files and chuckles. She stops then, ashamed and a little red in the cheeks. She'll slide the pen back where it belongs and move onto the next object.

Today it happens to be a vanilla-scented candle. The very same one she bought the detective to keep in her home, but it's been sitting in that same spot for a month. Always forgotten at the end of a long workday. But maybe the floundering doctor finds a little comfort in the familiarity of the object.

That's the real reason it's still here. The real reason it's waiting on the edge of her desk on days like these.

The doctor pops the lid off the candle and brings it slowly to her nose before inhaling the warm vanilla fragrance. Her eyelids fall shut as the blond lets the sweet scent swirl around, registering perfectly in her mind. It's a small comfort in this world of new above the morgue.

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, pulling a groan from deep within the brunette's throat. Seeing her lost to the world like that... that's the stuff of her fist-to-cheek mid-day fantasies.

There's a sort of creepy element to that... fantasizing about your (intensely attractive) co-worker, and the fact that the scenarios are so innocent only seems to make it worse for the detective. Why can't she have an imagination like a normal person and just picture her naked?

No, that's wrong to even think about thinking about.

She wants to _know_ the doctor on more than just a physical level. She's a mystery. A cold case, still alive and breathing.

"Don't you have an autopsy to be doing?" she snaps, though she's not quite sure why. By no means does she want the doctor to leave.

"Oh, yes..." she gingerly replaces the lid and sets the candle back in its exact place, label facing the same way. Everything is absolutely perfect. "Well, the coroner's van is stuck in traffic."

Of course, the detective already knew that. The doctor never makes the journey upstairs unless she's completely unoccupied and under-stimulated. In those cases, she comes upstairs like a heat-seeking missile and soaks up as much information as humanly possible and then some before taking her leave, leaving those in her wake pleasantly confused.

"Traffic, huh. How long's that gonna take?"

A half-smile. The detective rolls her eyes at herself. That little quirk of the lip should _not_ have caused such a sweeping sensation in her lower stomach. It's _just_ a smile, but that mouth is twisting her up effortlessly. She doubts the doctor knows the bounds of her power.

"I can't say... But you know, this reminds me of Boris Kerner's work on empirical-spatial-temporal features of traffic congestion―"

The detective clenches her jaw and turns away from the doctor completely. If she doesn't stop the woman now, she'll never be able to take her eyes away from that beautiful mouth in action.

"Gosh, that's interesting!" Sarcastic. Words dripping in a mean-spirited way. This always happens when the blond doctor comes around. Like a reflex. A terrible one at that. "But we have a murderer to catch."

The doctor lets her gaze drop to the floor for only a moment, but it's long enough for the detective to see her caustic words have hit their mark. She's upset the only woman who will never let her know the caliber of her words.

"Oh... I'm sorry." A step back. She smooths her dress, all composure. Hard as glass. But the detective can see right through her. The detective can see right through herself as well.

The doctor walks out of the bullpen with hastily assembled confidence, but all the detective gets is a shake of the head from her former partner and an overall feeling of guilt deep in her stomach.

Great.

...

...

The Division One Café isn't world-known for anything, but behind the counter, her mother makes her a cup of coffee worth selling her soul for. Especially on mornings like these.

Mornings that started with falling off the wrong side of the bed. Mornings with no running water, but instead a black sludge because the apartments get precedence over the condos. Mornings that are only made livable because a pair of bright, hazel eyes and an innocent smile that have the power to spill into the bad thoughts and memories like dye.

She sips her coffee slowly, doing everything she can to stay in the café for a few extra minutes. Better here than in the bullpen drying her eyes out over grisly crime scene photos from the basement of a boys' group home.

The distinct sound of heels clicking their way over to her makes her wonder what keeps the other woman coming back.

"Hi, may I sit with you?" She's bright and cheerful and all-too pure.

A shrug. "Sure."

Today she's in yellow. Maybe that's an appropriate color. She's so innocent. Sheltered, even― like the center of a daisy. But considering her profession, the detective decides this woman's seen more than anyone could ever know. And look at her. She's gorgeous and delicate... and dear god, she's smiling.

She can't help but zero-in on her favorite corner of her mouth― the left. The side she has that precious dimple. The side that tugs at the detective's heart, begging her to protect the woman in front of her... from everything.

Her smile fades quickly, soft lips (they _must_ be soft) returning to a thin line as if she's suddenly remembered the case waiting not too far from here. It's a snap-decision, she can tell already when the doctor reaches across the table and places her hand atop the detective's.

"Are you okay?"

Everyone else knows this is not a question you ask this detective. She hasn't been 'okay' in a long time. But the adorable, new chief ME somehow makes her feel closer to that.

"I'm fine... Are you okay?" The question comes out the way it would had she been interrogating the woman. It's the way the doctor's hand feels pressed against her own that knocks her back to her old sarcastic ways.

The doctor takes her hand away, opting to fold it with the other, safe in her lap.

"You look nice," the detective tries, but it's all wrong. Instead, the doctor hears: "What do you want?"

"I... I wanted to see how you were doing. Back in there... you looked upset."

That strikes a nerve. A good one too.

"Yeah, well why wouldn't I be?"

"I...I..." she hangs her head, clearly sorry she even asked.

The detective pushes her coffee cup away from herself, all the sudden nauseated at the way she's treating the woman opposite her.

"Hey," she tries, but the doctor has already whispered a pardon. She watches her go, a deep pain forming in her chest when she notices the unusual slump in the doctor's shoulders.

If she had it in her, she'd smack herself for being such an idiot.

...

...

Nights like these have the detective up in the late hours of the night vacuuming already spotless carpet from the last time this happened― two nights ago. There's something soothing about the back-and-forth motion that takes her mind off the bodies stowed away in the morgue.

She hears a knock on the door and lets out a sign. It's probably a neighbor complaining about the noise and the hour. Reasonable... just not tonight. Tonight she needs this.

"Look, I'll keep it d―" her words die on her tongue as she meets the eyes of someone who does _not_ live in her building.

"Hi."

"Um, hey?" she straightens her tank top and tries to look like she wasn't just relieving her stress by use of cleaning appliance.

"May I come in?" She's bright-eyed and cheery as always, a beacon of golden light amidst the grey murk clouding the detective.

She gives only a nod, but that's all the doctor needs to step inside gracefully, looking out of place and much too classy for a place like this. The detective feels a stab of something like shame, wishing she had more to show for herself.

But if the doctor notices the mess or cheap furnishings, she doesn't let it show. Instead, she trains her eyes on the vacuum cleaner sitting upright in the center of the cluttered living room, a small sigh escaping her.

She bites her lip. Lord save the detective.

"Are you having nightmares?" Simple. Clinical. She's a doctor, she has every right to wonder. She's too damn curious for her own good, but lying to her seems cruel.

"Uh... yeah. Guess I am." The detective shoves her hands into her pockets, trying to appear casual. Like the dreams don't terrify her. Like she doesn't wake up drenched in sweat and fully convinced he's there. He's above her. _He's going to kill her._

"I'm worried about you."

She feels along the raised skin of her palm almost absently at this point. Her thumb traces small circles as she attempts to rub away the shock of the words she just heard. She hasn't given this woman any reason to care about her.

"Jane? Did you hear me? I'm worried."

"You don't need to worry about me." Harsh. Too harsh. She doesn't deserve this.

"You don't mean that."

The detective kneels beside her vacuum and begins the tedious task of wrapping the cord back into place. As the doctor moves closer, it suddenly becomes imperative that she wrap the cord as quickly as possible. As if her life depends on it... for no apparent reason.

Her fingers slip over the electrical tape covering the damage courtesy of a certain little dog. At the time, a supposedly temporary mend meant only to last until the next paycheck. Only that was three months ago. A box left unchecked on a to-do list lost in the clutter.

"Jane?"

She makes another loop around the winding pegs, dead set on finishing before the doctor can cross the room. But as the pointed toes of her (apparently customary) high heels peek into her peripheral vision, her grip on the cord falters and drops to the ground, lifeless.

The detective can only stare at the grey cord draped over the doctor's toes. Her chest tightens as she falls back on her feet, defeated. Eyes closed, she counts the seconds like it says in those pamphlets her mother keeps trying to push on her.

"Jane?"

"What are you doing here?"

Everything. Everything comes out too harsh.

"I told you... I'm worried about you, Jane."

Her fingers curl into fists, but no matter how hard she tries, she can't feel anything in the center of her palms- the only place she wants to _feel._

"Why?"

She hears a sigh from high above her where the doctor stands. Fabric shifting. Slight air movement. Little things that would have most likely gone completely unnoticed had she kept her eyes open.

It's the sudden point of contact that makes her jump into alertness. She opens her eyes and stares wide-eyed as the doctor tucks the vacuum cord carefully back into the detective's hands. Their fingers brush together slightly, maybe even accidentally. She can't be sure.

Reality strikes as their eyes meet, brief and fleeting, but at the same time grounding.

She pulls herself away from the doctor, desperate to distance herself. To stay far enough away she won't somehow ruin her by standing too close. It's a reflex. She doesn't mean it. She doesn't _want_ it. But the look of determination in those hazel eyes makes her wonder if the doctor understands that.

"I don't think you should be alone tonight, Jane... but if you don't want me here, I'll leave. I won't force you."

She nods, but it's not the type of answer the blond is looking for.

"Would you like me to stay?"

The answer is easy. Yes. Yes. A thousand times _yes._ But she can't help but wonder where the hours will take them. How many more insults and sharp words will it take before the doctor can no longer stand to be near her? The detective doesn't trust herself. Not tonight. Not with this beautiful woman.

"No."

"Okay," she says, getting to her feet and running her hands over the nonexistent wrinkles in her dress. "Okay... Goodbye, Jane."

...

...

It isn't until a week later that the detective collects herself enough to make the trip downstairs. While the doctor loses herself in curiosity in the police world, the morgue only brings the detective a dull sense of fury. Latent anger at the injustices that have passed through.

But she pushes the feeling aside as the doctor comes into view.

Blue. Today she's wearing blue. She's in her office, completely absorbed in the file before her. Her mouth moves tortuously as she silently forms the words that are no doubt flashing through her mind.

"Hey."

The doctor jumps, photos dropping from the file into her lap. She puffs out a small sigh and shakes her head, smiling as if amused with herself.

"Hello, detective," she says retrieving the photographs from her lap. With one hand flat on her desk, she reaches with the other to pick one up off the ground. She feels around blindly for the picture, keeping her head above her desk like someone trying to keep their head above water.

"Um, hey."

Quiet laughter. The detective might as well die right there.

"You said that already." She stands and smiles brightly, welcoming the detective into her office wordlessly. "Is there something I can do for you, detective?"

A terrible idea, she decides. What kind of moron goes in head first without a plan?

"Um... no. Just stopping by, I guess. Sorry to bother you." She turns and walks straight out of the office, unable to manage even an awkward goodbye.

She begins to wonder if she'll ever get it right with the doctor. If she'll ever be able to look her in the eye and say what she _really_ means. She doesn't dare go back upstairs. Though he'll never admit it out loud, Sergeant Korsak knows exactly why she's down here today. If she came up now, he'd know right away. He'd know she failed.

So instead she turns the corner out of the doctor's office but goes no further. Stopping with her hand and forearm pressed against the wall, fingers splayed, she makes a noise of frustration that has a pair of lab techs squishing against each other in hopes of giving her enough space as they pass.

She contemplates just going upstairs and facing the disappointed shake of the head she knows is waiting for her. Might as well, right? What's the point of just waiting in the morgue if nothing's going to come from it? But she immediately loathes the idea. After all, she's never been one to give up that easily. She's Jane Rizzoli. _Jane Rizzoli_. When's the last time she gave up on something?

When's the last time she let something so microscopic hold her back?

Her flat palm against the wall slowly curls into a fist, determined. The detective pushes herself off the wall, a storm of drive and tenacity. She turns back towards the doctor's office ready to voice the thoughts that have been ringing around her head for months, head high, dead set on getting it _just_ right. She's so distracted in her own mind, she fails to notice the fingers that suddenly grip the door jam as the doctor hurries around the very same corner out of her office.

It's a mix of collision, reflex, and the color blue. Scarred hands find soft shoulders as the detective steadies the doctor.

"Hi," the doctor says, tucking an errant, golden strand behind her ear, making no move to distance herself from the detective.

"Hey."

"Um," her eyes dart to the left before returning shyly to the detective, "hi."

"You said that already." Light. Teasing.

The smaller woman holds a hand over her mouth to try and hide that smile. It doesn't work. Left dimple on full display, the detective feels that tug in her chest that radiates into her gut. It's never steered her wrong before.

"Sorry, detective."

"Jane."

A request approved with a simple nod of the head. Progress. Hazel-green eyes meet hers once more, and the smile that comes with them lets the detective rest at ease with the idea that everything will be just fine.


End file.
